Not Tomorrow
by heyhellohowdy
Summary: The American Revolution, retold! America forgets about England in his youth and suddenly when he returns to his colony, he finds America has lived the life of a regular citizen in his absence- how shameful!
1. Prologue

_Author's Notes: I started writing this story when I was about 15, and now, 3 years later, I'm trying to continue it again, lol. Also, there are some OCs in this story, but I used them to advance the plot, so they shouldn't be too bad. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy!_

"I won't allow it. Why can't you follow anything through to the end?!" his voice boomed.

Not a sound could be heard except that of his heart beating so rapidly inside his chest and the rain hitting the puddles scattered across the ground. The glossy green of his once brother's eyes shone in front of him, angled right behind the pointy and deadly tip of a musket.

 _This is it,_ he thought. After all the fighting, the struggling, the sheer motivation and frustration of his people that led them to create a militia, wasted. He didn't want to think about that, though. It made him want to cringe, but his face held its unreadable expression. He just kept watching the blade of the musket, waiting for his enemy to strike. They both stayed completely still for what seemed like minutes, toppling on hours, lifetimes even.

Then, much to his surprise, the musket tip lowered. He looked into his opponent's eyes, unable to make out the cause of such an action.

"There's no way I can shoot you," England said. The sound of his words bounced off the insides of America's head and never seemed to leave. He couldn't put the syllabus together for them to make words, and the words, meaning.

"I can't," England whispered under his breath as his eyes almost instantly filled with tears. His words were barely audible, but America heard them, as well as his soldiers forming a wall behind him.

England's gun slowly slipped out of his fingers and hit the ground at an extremely slow pace, as if his moping was making everything around mope with him. He fell to his knees and buried his face in his hands. At first he didn't make a sound, too overwhelmed to be able to. And then almost all at once, the air was filled with nix but his painful sobs, as they echoed across the vast nothingness of the field.

America looked at England and it took a while for him to react to it all, still in the moment when the musket was pointed at his face. When his thoughts and emotions caught up with him, he was filled with utter rage. He felt like England had been taking advantage of him his whole life, and now that he's on the floor in tears, there was no way he was going to show him the slightest bit of sympathy. Finally England was getting a taste of his own medicine. America couldn't count the endless nights he stayed up crying from what England had done to him. He felt like yelling at England and telling him how he deserved every last bit of what he was getting. But his body did not change. There was no expression on his face.

"Why? Damn it, why?! It's not fair-," England's voice was cut off by his own chokes of pain. America was just about to say something, but something stopped him, as if the wind had been taken completely out of him.

England raised his head up at America, his eyes streaming with tears. His face was scrunched up and looked as if he was about to scream, but he held it in. America stared at his watery eyes, and he instantly realized something.

A whole world suddenly came flowing back to him, a whole lifetime. There were so many faces, so many voices, and yet too many emotions. The memories of his childhood hit him in the face all at once, and he took a step back. They were like portals to dreams, foggy and hazy. A life he had forgotten poured into his mind.


	2. America's Earliest Memory

America was quite young. He didn't have an exact age, but it was obvious he seemed no older than one or two. He had been playing in the tall grass of a meadow, trying so hard to catch a little bunny he had seen just a few minutes ago. The warming heat of the sun bounced up and down on his clothing as he scampered from one foot to the other. The heat danced through the grass as the mild breeze ever so slightly stirred the pieces about. Just as America had caught his bunny, he heard footsteps from about a quarter of a mile away.

"I'm really busy, but I got up early, hoping I could see you again. Wasn't that nice of me?" England muttered. It almost felt like he was talking to himself rather than America. His strut was a little frightening; it looked as if he was being possessed rather than walking normally. He had a big smirk on his face and his eyes seemed hollow, but his voice was full of personality. Overall, England was a pretty scary guy, especially to a young, little boy who hadn't had much human interaction. Oddly though, he didn't scare America away as he probably would any one or two year old. England made his way closer to America, walking more and more slowly as he approached.

America took a moment to examine him from head to toe with his caught bunny held in his arms. America smiled and gave out a small and innocent giggle. "I'm so happy. Hi, there. It's nice to see you," he sung. His voice was so much louder than it should have been compared the size of his body. Every word he spoke was clear and smooth. Obviously, he possessed a great deal of confidence and a firm grasp of language and communication.

England was taken aback by the small child's boldness and stopped. England was so used to children running away from him on sight (and women, but that was a different matter), he hadn't expected confrontation to be this easy. "What? You're not scared? I thought you'd run."

"No, I'm okay," America told him. "Lately, I've been figuring a lot about who I am."

"Oh, that's great." England had never heard a child say such things before, especially not to a complete stranger. Something about this little boy made him feel at ease and, for the moment, took his mind off of everything. "I never thought I'd say this, but I'm quite happy to see you, too." England smiled for the first time in what seemed like forever. He looked at America for a while, taking in all his features. The moment almost seemed too perfect as a warm and weak gust of wind slightly blew between the two of them. It took a second for England to snap out of his daze.

"Well, that just settles it for me!" England almost yelled, bringing back his creepy façade. "From this day on, you'll be my brother!"

America smiled. "Then, I guess I'll call you big brother."

England froze. "Me…?" he whispered to himself. "Big Brother…?" All at once, whatever feeling of bliss America had given England disappeared. Every one of England's attempts to befriend his neighbors had failed miserably. His experiences with France and Spain were awful and had only ended up in wars and hurt feelings. He didn't want to be like them, but still, he didn't know if he could be the perfect brother for America. Also, Henry was stirring up a lot of trouble back home, making a new Church seemed excessive for the sole purpose of getting a divorce. England was finding himself overwhelmed by all of this and before he knew it, he felt wet drips streaming down his face. America gave him a concerned and confused look.

England wiped the tears from his twinkling green eyes. He spoke in a very calm and controlled voice: "Well, now. Don't be so formal. How about you call me Britain?"

America nodded. He now had a family.


	3. The Call of the Spirit

_Author's Notes: I wrote this chapter before Moana came out, just fyi I didn't copy the ocean thing lmao._

"Oh, America," England chuckled as he pulled on his jacket and marched across the house, "you're a smart little bugger, now aren't you?"

"I sure am!" America replied as he toddled right alongside England, being able to keep up, despite how short his legs were.

"Now then, I bet you wouldn't be able to say your ABC's."

"I wouldn't bet against that."

"Ha ha, come on, then." England stopped walking and bent down so he was face-to-face with America. A serious look came across his face as he pinned on America's eyes. "At least give it a shot."

"Uhhh… A, B, C, D… er, F… something, something U and then K!"

England chortled. "My, oh my. Well, you were close. Sort of." He scooped up America in his arms and fell onto his back. "Don't you remember that little song I taught you? It's awfully helpful, you know." He rocked back and forth on the floor, embracing America, as his young little laughs occupied the space around them. America could feel England's hands run through his hair and his grip tighten around America's waist. He was becoming a bit light-headed and his stomach was beginning to cramp up from all the laughter.

Eventually, England stopped rolling around and just lay on the floor with America on top of him. He gave off a long and sweet sigh that slightly blew America's hair. America lifted his head up and met to England's eyes. They both smiled at each other and America gave him a little kiss on the chin. England gave a little giggle and sloppily smooched him on the cheek and America playfully pushed him away and wiped it off.

The fun all stopped as England's bright and warm grin leisurely slid into a heavy-hearted expression.

"Hey," America said as he smooshed England's face with his hands. "What's wrong?"

England drearily breathed out and was quiet for a few seconds. "I, um," he mumbled glancing down at the floor. "I have to tell you something. It's important."

He held America and set him on the ground in front of him as he sat up crisscross. "Look now, I'm going to be leaving soon."

"Where?" America promptly asked.

"Um, back where I live. There's absolutely no way I can stay here with you any longer. I've already been putting off my departure for quite a while. If I could, I would stay here with you longer. In fact, I'd never leave you, ever."

"Hey, hey! It's okay. I'll just come with you. No big deal!"

"No, you can't do that. You have to stay here. You'd be better off here, anyway. Trust me though, if I had the chance, I would take you back to my house and places far beyond that."

"What, like to the Caribbean?!"

England chuckled. "Yes, and farther than that."

"Still though, it's gonna suck without you here. Who else is supposed to kiss my goodnight before bed or give me piggy back rides or make me foodies or be there when I'm feeling lonely?"

England blushed and turned his vision to the floor again. "Goodness, I wish I could. You're just going to have to be strong, okay? Can you do that for me?"

"Me? Strong? Of course I can! I'm me!"

"Ha ha, you cheeky little tosser. I'll tell you what: I'll bring you back a little treat when I return. How does that sound?"

"Oh, what treat?"

"It's a surprise, you wally."

"Oh, silly me…" America grinned from ear to ear, making his eyes squint shut, and leaned his face towards England. England laughed and lightly twisted America's nose.

"Oh, I'm going to miss you, but the boat is leaving off the dock in half an hour. I have to go. Okay, loves and hugs now," England said as he gave America a quick hug and stood up. He reached down and grabbed a suitcase resting on the floor. "I'll be back in about six months or so. You know how tough you are; you can get on by yourself without me. See you then, pet."

The door slammed shut behind him, the noise bouncing off the walls. That noise was going to be the last trace of England America was going to have for six months. It was almost a bit overwhelming. America sat down and water started forming in his eyes as he stared off into space, expecting it to open and England behind it yelling, "Just kidding! Got you good, didn't I?" but he didn't. For the hours America sat sitting there, he never did.

Suddenly, the soothing rays from the sun through the window warmed up America's body, lying spread out on the floor. He rubbed his eyes and took a mini stretch. He must have fallen asleep on the floor. Like a bolt of lightning, he sprung up off the ground once he realized that England had left him yesterday. He ran out the door and didn't stop until he got to the docks.

He jogged to the very end of the dock and dove into the icy morning-cold water. Distant grotty laughter of the old men who worked at the dock could be heard. He chattered his teeth as he doggy paddled through the water, trying to find England's ship and swim out to him.

"Britain!" America yelled. "Where are you?" America began swimming as fast as he could away from the dock. Maybe if I swim fast enough, I can reach his home before he does, he thought. I can see the very look on his face as he comes to shore and sees me on the beach relaxing. 'Oh, ya little bugga' he'll say. 'I bent ova and ya right up hit my oss as I wasn't lookin. Oh, pardon my French.'

America went swimming for quite a while. It wasn't until one of the workers at the dock had to go out in a rowboat to fetch him did he stop swimming.

"Al' hell," the dockworker said. "What are ya doin' out here? The water is practic'ly freezin'."

America glanced up and studied the man scanning over the edge of the boat. He looked old and grimy with a gray beard and one white eye. He didn't smell too good, either. "Oh, I was gonna go see my brother, he lives out there, I'm pretty sure," America told the man. The man was quiet for a few seconds, his brow furled and his mouth scowled. His expression made America feel pretty stupid and embarrassed. "Uh, would you mind taking me back to shore?" he said sheepishly.

"Nah, that's what I came out here for anyway. Hop on in, kid. Here, I'll help ya." The man held America up by the armpits and placed him on the other side of the rowboat.

They spent the first couple of minutes together in silence as the man rowed the boat along. America felt the morning sun just gently warm him up as he shivered. It had to be at least 2 degrees Celsius outside. The man glanced over at America and took off his jacket to wrap America in it.

"Thanks, mister," America said as he cozied up in the big overcoat (even though it smelled horribly of fish and made him queasy).

"Al' hell, don't mention it, kiddo," the man replied, and once again, there was complete silence, except the sound of the water being pushed.

"So… what's your name anyway?" America asked.

"Alfred, what about you?"

America froze. Did he even have a name? It's just America, isn't it? "America."

Alfred laughed. "Nah, kid. That ain't your name. Unless you got you some stupid parents."

"Well, I don't know. Sorry."

The ride back to shore was an awkward one. America could tell Alfred had a short tolerance, so he didn't want to risk getting him upset. He watched the water splash against the wood of the boat for most of the ride, and whatever other time he spent trying not to stare at the man's white eye. America tried wiggling his toes because he was starting to lose feeling in them.

"Alright, com'ere," Alfred said as they made it to shore and he tied up the boat to the dock. America got out and found it hard to walk with his body suddenly feeling so stiff. "You should sit out in the sun."

Alfred directed America to a field where the sun shone on the tan pieces of grass and made each blade look like a drop of sunshine. It was the same place America met his older brother. He fell quite gracelessly somewhere in the middle of the meadow and breathed in the warming sun. The warmth filled his body with life and he once again had feeling in his toes.

The same thing happened the day after. And the day after. And the day after. "Al' hell, kid. You're really bustin' my nuts here rowin' back and forth everyday," Alfred had said one day. The day after that, America didn't bother going in the water, but simply sat upon the docks, longing out towards the ocean. Something was calling to him, whether it was Britain or some force of nature, he wasn't sure but he felt he was needed elsewhere. "Please don't go hoppin' in again," Alfred had said walking up to him.

"Don't worry, Mister Alfred. It's pointless to go swimming out there. My brother has to come to me, I'm not strong enough to go to him," America replied.

"Do you know when your brother's comin' back?"

"No," America mumbled.

Alfred examined the little boy. "Well, how bout you come help me out while you wait for your brother? Do you know how to tie a square knot?"

America thought for a moment and looked up. "What's a square knot?"

Alfred nearly fell under the support of his legs. "What's a square knot?! What kinda kid don't teach his little brother howda square knot?! Come on, I'll straighten ya out." Alfred took America's hand and taught him everything he knew about the docks over the time Britain was gone. America no longer wore his baby blue nightgown and was given worker clothes: pants, a vest, tiny shoes for his tiny feet. He soon became one of the dock workers. People often confused America for Alfred's child, and at first Alfred would deny their relation, but eventually he stopped correcting people. Even though he was a bit bitter on the outside, after he had a drink of whiskey and he got used to you for a bit, he was actually quite funny and caring. He shared his food with America and was the only person around who cared for him. America felt a fatherly bond to Alfred, and looked up to him with great respect. Sometimes he would even sleep in Alfred's shack with him. It was cold and he had to sleep on the floor, but he suffered through it to hear Alfred's stories of his ancestors and the rigorous ship ride his parents took to get to the continent where they live now. After America heard the story, the next day he felt an even stronger draw towards the sea. His soul begged to be released from the body and travel outward. To where, he didn't know. "Best ta not brood, boy," Alfred told him, so America ignored the call and worked instead. By this time, America was about the physical age of 7 years old, but Alfred had aged about 20 years since they first met. He needed more and more help running the docks, to the point where he couldn't work at the docks at all and left the work to the other people who looked after the dock. America slept at Alfred's house more and more, mainly because the other dock workers pressured him to. America didn't like looking at Alfred when he was so weak. He didn't even tell America stories anymore. On a winter's morning, the man was found colder than ice, sitting slacked in a chair. With the doorway crowded with dock workers and commotion, America slipped in and instantly noted how terrible the smell of death was.

America wasn't all too shook when they found his body. In fact, he had gone back to work like everything was the way it was. But at night, he cuddled up into the bed of the man who he remembered clearly. His face was there, the memories of him were there, but his name eluded him. It smelled like the nameless man and America suddenly found himself weeping. He thought about the face of the man who once used to be Alfred, staring at him with lifeless eyes. He weeped because the call he felt from the ocean was making him sick. And he weeped because he missed the man whose name escaped him. He wasn't very well acquainted with the other dock workers. America weeped because he felt horribly alone. He cried until he fell asleep.

America didn't want to see Alfred during wake. He feared the emptiness in the corpse's eyes. He went to the funeral though a few days later. America helped the diggers throw dirt on top of his coffin. He didn't know how to react, this was the first time America was forced to deal with death. America wondered how dark it must be in the little box, trapped six feet underground under all that dark dirt. That can't be what's on the other side: pure black. He imagined himself stuck in a small space surrounded by darkness with no direction and his knees shook with fear. He felt wetness on his face and heard someone panting. Who? He wasn't sure.

A firm hand touched his shoulder and the shaking, crying, and breathing stopped. The touch startled him. The hand suddenly moved from his shoulder and wiped the wetness away. America was too scared to look up at the owner of the hand, but he saw in his peripheral view the person was wearing a black cloak and holding a book. "It's okay to feel sad, but don't feel regret," the voice said in a sturdy, low tone. "Death is part of the circle of life. With his end, comes a new beginning. One day, that will be you in the ground, and your life, with its restlessness and woe, will come to an end as you start a new, peaceful life among love and God. And your friend will be waiting for you there. Death is full of love, not riddled with emptiness." America looked back at the hole being filled in the ground. He took a deep breath and tried to stop the wetness on his face.

The next month or two, America still helped at the docks, but he found it hard to find someone to talk to. His colleagues, if he could even call them that, were so wrapped up in their manly vanity and ego that they wouldn't dare talk to a child for fear of coming off as motherly. The most they gave were a few pats on the back and mutters of grievances. The work America did wasn't very helpful, either. So the most the workers ever did was glance at him and nothing more. At night, America cried into the sheets of the nameless man's bed. He found that life was too hard and wanted to have his peaceful ending already. But something in him kept him alive. Not living, but alive. Each morning as he walked down to the docks, he cried silently as he looked out to the sea. The call was starting to dim.


	4. A Memory

A big ship pulled into the docks. America had only seen two ships as big before. Usually they came when someone of the higher class arrived in town to do business. As the other workers of the docks tied the ship to the post, passengers of the luxurious ship exited, some dressed up to the nines, others wearing rags, carrying chests and other items. America noticed the nameless man walking out of the boat with tight lips and half lidded eyes. Suddenly all grief of the past year was forgotten, and he ran to the man and hugged him.

"America!" The man immediately hugged back and picked him up in his arms. "My God! I've missed you so much!" He was smiling but America felt the man's tears smear onto his cheek.

"Ahem," one of the other well-dressed men loudly interrupted and glared at the man.

The man turned around, holding America. "I haven't seen my brother in twenty-five years, if you don't mind."

"Do act more controlled in public. A simple hug would have sufficed, I'm sure. Certainly not using the Lord's name in vain."

The man turned around and started walking again while rolling his eyes. He carried America while leading a few men with chests to their cottage. As he walked through the front door, he gave out a hearty laugh. "Had a bit of fun while I was away, I see!" He mentioned to the broken window, thrown over furniture, and various other messes here and there.

"Sorry…" America muttered.

"No worries, my pet," he chuckled lightly and moved his face closer to America's. "I probably would have done the same."

The men with the luggage tripped and dropped a box. "Oh, for heaven's sake!" England yelled and placed America down, marching toward the men. "Out of all the things you could have dropped!" He bent over and picked up what had fallen. The man shrugged and walked out to get more luggage. America's brother turned around and walked back to him while inspecting something in his hands. "Well," he grumbled, "these were meant to be for you." He held out a box containing tiny wooden soldiers in red uniforms.

"Oh," America took the box in his hands. He picked one soldier up. A smile with a missing teeth shone on his face. "Oh cool!" He sat down and took all the soldiers out of the box to look at them.

"What do we say…?"

"Hocus pocus!" America blurted out without breaking his attention from the toys.

"We say _thank you_."

"Thank you." America smiled up at the man in the eyes for a while. The man smiled back. America looked back down at his gift. The box the soldiers came in had words on it. "T… to…"

"Yes…" The man crouched down next to America and nodded at his attempt to read.

"To America," he had learned how to read his own name well. "F… Fr… Frome, Brie… brie tane…"

"To America, love Britain," England corrected.

 _That's what his name was!_ America thought. _Britain! England! The United Kingdom!_

"I had, er," England pulled America out of thought as he grabbed a soldier. "I made each one of these by hand. Each one has a different face. Gave me quite a bit of splinters, I'll have you know. They're all based on people I've met that I think you would have enjoyed. This one's name is Harold, that one's James, that's William, and that there is Charles."

"Whoa! That's so cool!" America said again. He noticed more details in each soldier. He noticed the minor errors in painting, the wooded edges, the features of each toy, each representing a life.

"I'm glad you think so." He smiled once more, but soon his smiled turned to a frown. "What in heaven's name are you wearing?"

America looked down at the ratty, stained, ripped cloths that hung to his body. He looked up at England's spotless, tailored outfit. His white hair was in a loose ponytail with curls on either side of his head. The whole affair of England giving America the toys looked like a member of royalty donating to a poor beggar boy. "Uh…" America didn't have an answer for him.

"Carlisle!" England shouted. A man came in who wore fancy clothing, but he looked so exhausted and over-worked, one couldn't tell if he was higher class or a servant to the higher class. "Please, see to it that America gets a wardrobe that suits his needs. Perhaps not anything too flashy because he seems like an active young lad, so mostly play clothes with a few evening clothes will do."

"Yes, sir," the man muttered bitterly.

England dug into his coat pocket and shoved money into the man's hands. "You will be paid more once I see the outcome of your task."

"Yes, sire!" The man happily sang as he danced off.

England turned around to America again. "You must learn this in your younger years, love. People see you as nothing unless you have money."

America was turned off by his brother's cynical comment and pulled him down to sit on the floor with him. They played soldiers together for a few minutes as men brought crates of possessions in the house. England told him more about the soldiers he had met.

A well-dressed man walked through the door. "Ahem," he said to get attention.

England turned around and immediately stood up. "Yes, my lord?"

"You have a meeting in an hour's time. I suggest you arrive early to make a good first impression."

"I wouldn't dream of doing otherwise. I'll be there in half an hour." The man left and England frowned at America. "I realize that I just arrived and this is the first time we've seen each other in nearly twenty-five years, but I must leave for a meeting. I shall return this evening in time for supper, do you understand?" America pouted, but before he could reply, England said, "None of that pouty business, now. Is it really so bad if we waited so long to see each other that we wait just a little while longer to see each other again?" America pointed his back towards England, who laughed at the gesture. "Ah, I see how it is. Well, whether you approve or not, I must be off." He patted his brother's back. "I'll see you then." He kissed America's cheek and walked out.

Soon the men bringing things in the house had disbanded too until America was alone once again. Not even his messes he left were still there, having been cleaned by one of the men coming in and out of the doorway. Sunlight left him as well as the moonlight peeking through the windows lit the walls. England still hadn't returned.


	5. Forgetting

England had stayed a few months. America remembers the winter's bitter cold with fondness as England wrapped him in coats and pecked his red nose. He remembers evenings in the kitchen with the oven fire burning brightly and having food given to him. It was much better than Alfred's food, but America couldn't place why. He remembers running through the halls with his wooden soldiers and falling, breaking the head off one of the dolls. "Worry not," England had said as he wiped away his brother's tears. "I'll make another." But he didn't, and America was fine with that. He was satisfied with the dolls he had. He remembers falling asleep in England's arms as quiet lullabies enchanted his ears. He remembers England waving at him from the back of a ship as it sailed off to sea, abandoning America at the docks as he waved back.

England had left as quickly as he had shown up. America sighed and sat down, no longer caring that his expensive clothing was being dirtied by the filth on the docks. There was no body to care about his clothes, or his food, or his health. America realized he would have to sell his clothes to get his working clothes back, or buy new ones since they were falling apart anyway.

America's transition from that short time with England's company had made his time alone all the more lonely. He woke up each morning with a force pulling him back to bed. His movements moved more slowly. His feet dragged more when he walked. But he never gave himself up to the emptiness that plagued his heart. He never once missed a day of work on the docks, never once laid to rest, never stopped walking. His energy was vanishing.

One day as America was sniffling over a piece of food he dropped in the water, one of his coworkers came up behind him and said with a scoff, "Hey, kid. Why don't you grow up?" Alas, that was the problem. America was trying to grow up when he was only so young. He remembered seeing the man who told him that playing in the meadow when he was a child. He was once happy, but now the life had grown cold and bitter. America made a promise he'd never become like that.

As America's work became more sloppy, one day as he was pulling a ship into port, he slipped and fell and his head hit the ship's outer wood and got knocked out. His body slashed in the water and he was retrieved by one of the other workers.

When he came to, America no longer knew faces he once knew. Words eluded him more easily. Nearly all memories were wiped.

"Hey, are you alright?" one of the dock workers asked as they tried to slap him into consciousness. "Who are you?"

"...Me?" America asked, rubbing his head. "Ah…" his mind recalled a name he heard before but no longer had connection to. "Alfred?"

"You alright, Alfred?"

"... Yeah…" America mumbled. He tried to stand up but fell right back down and blacked out.


	6. Death

Alfred was an eight year old boy who was born knowing how to tie knots. The men at the docks mumbled about him behind his back like the town ladies at the book club, but if they had something to say to his face, they should just say it. Alfred brought the ships in like any other worker. His best friend was one of the worker's children. He didn't know the worker's name because nobody talked much at work, but his son's name was Dylan. His best memories were of him and Dylan skipping stones at the end of the pier and swimming in the ocean on hot summer days. The only time they ever fought was when they both fell in love with a girl and tried to impress her by beating each other up. Neither had won her affection. Alfred had grown his first facial hair before Dylan and enjoyed rubbing it in his face. Soon he and Dylan stopped seeing each other, probably because he was jealous of how strong Alfred was. Alfred shrugged it off. He didn't like Dylan as a person much anyway. He became more and more useful to the docks until people stopped talking about him behind his back and let him live his goddamn life.

When he was invited to social gatherings, he never attended. He assumed he didn't know anyone well enough to have a good time. Most of his afternoons and holidays he spent doing what he thought a man should do: chop wood, smoke tobacco, etc. And when he wasn't doing those things, he waited. The idea of a wife made him hesitate and feel queasy, and not in an exciting, romantic way. He decided that he didn't need a wife, or a child. He was independent, and having a family would only bring more things to look after.

A year or two passed and it had been a particularly fortunate time for people in the mortuary business. Alfred's coworkers seemed to drop like flies, but his only worry was that he might be the next one to go. He attended the funerals out of respect, though when he was sitting listening to the service, it seemed a little disrespectful of him to have been so physically close to these people but emotionally far away. Every person he had met felt like a hollow shell to him. There was something on the outside, but nothing on the inside. Especially when he saw those same people lying still in a casket with a cold rotting heart and a jaw that won't stay shut on its own. He stood up to pay his respects to the corpse, and as he bent down to say a prayer, he saw himself lying dead in the casket, and he was looking right back at himself in the eyes. He didn't know what to do so he just stared with his hands folded at the door of his mouth. He stood up straight and walked away, and his dead self stared at him until he was out of the room.

That night, Alfred stared tirelessly at himself in the reflection of a bucket of water. Once again, he saw nothing but a shell. He walked to the master bedroom, and on the way, looked at all the decorations hanging on the walls. He didn't know where they came from, and it only made him feel more distant to reality. He lay down in bed and stared at the ceiling.

He didn't know what he was doing.

But he knew it was making him sad by the touch of cool tears on his cheeks and the clench of his muscles on his heart. He knew he didn't like working at the docks, but that was all he had worth doing. There was no purpose in his life; he just killed time constantly. Soon enough, he'd be in that casket again. Nobody will know his name when he died, and he would blow out of existence the same way he had blown in.

He was sad and exhausted, and as his consciousness slowly faded out, a strong voice resonated in his mind, saying:

 _Live._


	7. Birth

Alfred woke up the next morning and sunlight was beaming everywhere in the room. He walked out of bed and into the hall, where he stared at the decorations once more. With little hesitation, he ripped them down and tore them up. He shoved the bits and pieces off the hall tables, shattering glass. He stopped when he came across a set of wood-carved soldiers. He studied and ran his finger over the figurine.

Next thing he knew, he was outside chopping and carving wood. He wasn't very good at carving objects, so he mostly started out carving spears, then arrows, then shapes, then animals, then people, then faces.

Faces he saw only for a split second while working at the docks. Faces of his coworkers that he had grown familiar with in the recent months. Faces he had never seen but felt an obligation to carve. Every time he looked into the eyes of his carving, he didn't see wood, he saw humanity.

The decorations on the hall tables that he had broke were replaced with his carvings. He could feel the life surging through the once empty hallways. He felt life when he woke up to sunshine across the walls of his bedroom. He felt life when he talked to his friends at the docks. He felt life when he met knew people from any walk of life. Life was a bell and only now that it was cracked could he hear its sweet chime.


End file.
